


Through The Other Side Of The Glass

by holdingtorches



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M, Scotland, implied engagement, local colour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-06 15:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12820533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdingtorches/pseuds/holdingtorches
Summary: Tom's POV of Through The Glass.





	Through The Other Side Of The Glass

**_Tom_ **

It was a Saturday. My father had dragged me along for a birthday party of one of the other clan’s elders. The hall was packed with people from different clans, and my father was with his friend Robbie, drinking away somewhere in the centre of the room. I looked around, hoping to find a familiar face. I scanned each face, trying to remember if I had ever interacted with any of them. Then I found her.

She lounged quietly on her chair, her side leaning against her chair’s back. Her hair was longer now, the auburn waves reaching the small of her back. I guess she really did keep the promise she made to me the last time we met. She was reading a thin novel and, judging by her expression it was one that was so bad it was good.

I walked my way towards her, my heart racing as the feelings I had buried under so many chances rose with a vengeance. She looked so beautiful in the off-white light. I crept up behind her and sighed inwardly. Apprehension had racked through me and had shocked me to the bone. Finally, not sure if my voice was quivering or not, I spoke.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Pita?”

She turned around to face me. Oh yes, she looked so different from before. Gone was the baby fat in her cheeks; they had melted away and had made her face look sharper yet kinder. Her eyes were still that sparkling, intoxicating green—I remember how I used to envy her for the colour. Her hair was still brown and wavier as ever, and a half-do was keeping her hair from falling over her face. But it was still her.

Before me was Robbie’s daughter, the girl who had always taught me advanced maths and world history lessons in the summer because although I was three years her senior, she made up for her lack of age with her intelligence. I remember how she’d read books; she would devour them, her record being Kahlil Gibran’s  _The Broken_  Wings in 17 minutes when she was fourteen. She was the reason I started reading; she had torn me away from the telly when I was just seven years old to read  _Matilda_  by Roald Dahl while she settled down with  _The Witches_. I was fond of reading since then, a habit that had stuck with me until now.

“It’s been quite a while indeed, Tom. Your father, where is he?” she asked me. Her voice had become fuller and less tinny.

I pointed to a group of men to the group my dad was in, pints of beer in their hands as they sang “Flower of Scotland”. Her eyes searched through the circle of men until she found her father. She turned to me and smiled softly.

“Your father is ever the Scotsman, Tom,” she sighed while shaking her head lightly.

“Same goes for your dad, you know. They’re still as close as ever, aren’t they?”

“Well, of course Tom. They’re childhood friends.”

“Just like us?”                                                                           

“Yes, just like us. That and the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”

Silence hung in the air after those words escaped her lips, as if she was hiding something. Was it discomfort? Embarrassment?

“…So why aren’t you with them, lad? Look, they have so much Guinness there! It’s enough to sink the Spanish Armada’s fleets!” she said, her voice’s mask transparent. Her voice still had that undertone of sadness that I simply couldn’t bear.

“All this pomp, revelry, and Guinness is getting just as tedious for me as it is for you, Pita.”

“Thomas William Hiddleston? Bored of Guinness‽ And besides, how are you so sure that I’m bored?”

“I’m pretty sure. I mean, just look at what you’re reading. You never read Julia’s stories.”

“Pff…” she scoffed, putting the novel down. She rose from her seat and I hushed a giggle; she was still as short as she was the last time we met. “What do you suggest we do then, Thomas old bean?”

“Oh, do stop with the trench talk. That’s so 1942.”

“Ehehehe.”

“I think you just stole my laugh, Pita. Won’t you go out for a walk with this ‘old bean’ of yours?”

“If I remember correctly, it was  _you_  who stole my laugh, lad. Sure, I’ll have that walk with you.”

She walked past tables and chatty men with me, walking away further and further from the group of men our fathers were in—they were singing “Scotland the Brave”. We walked into the cold Highland outdoors, the wind blowing against my cheeks like frosty, invisible knives. The scent of petrichor lingered stronger and stronger as we walked away from the hall, the wind’s whistling masking the fading sound of singing.

We rambled against the incessant wind, occasionally stopping when I spotted the familiar faces of different people. We chatted with them for a while, and the sound of her laugh soothed the sea of anxiety that churned and tossed in the pit of my stomach.

“I love everyone here!” I said probably too loudly, my arms raised in a ‘V’ as we walked away from her twin cousins Castor and Pollux. I saw a small smile form on her face, and the feeling within me fluttered again with full force.

“…But who did you love the most?” she asked me.

“You,” I answered

Shit. Did I confess to soon? What if she turned out not feeling the same way I did? What if she got put off by what I said and never notices me again? I just knew I had to retract my statement before I made a complete fool of myself.

“Well, of course, Pita,” I babbled, trying my best to redeem myself. “You’re my best friend. My love for you comes naturally.”

Her gaze fell away from me again, her eyes trying their best to betray what their owner felt. It pierced through my heart to see her like this. But why? Could it be…?

Silence suffocated us, placating the once happy mood and leaving my mind blank for anything to say. As I walked by her side, snippets of our past rushed back to me. I got to know her through my dad, who’s apparently her dad’s best friend. More often than not, we came over to visit her and Greenock. But I had a blast whenever she went down to London; I’d show her around the city and do almost everything with her. The last time we met was the graduation party I had after RADA. Ever since then, I failed to see her metamorphosis into the woman before me. I did hear from her best friend Siobhan though; she was also the harbinger of the bad news that changed my life.

Siobhan had called me that night. I just got home from the encore performance of Yorgjin Oxo that night, feeling tired and dull. My mobile phone rang, and Siobhan was on the other end of the line.

“Tom, you’ll never guess what happened,” she whispered excitedly. She must’ve been earshot of Pita that night.

“What?” I asked her, excited

“You remember Jake?”

I nodded, remembering clearly who Jake was. He was the lad who constantly tried to pry Pita and I apart.

“Jake has plans to make Pita his girlfriend. What’s worse is: he’s already kissed her.”

At that moment, my world crumpled as I slipped deeper and deeper into the mound of emotions I felt. I tried to keep my head above, desperately grasping onto our loyalty to each other. But I was suffocating in my low self-esteem and jealousy and rage and grief. I pressed the end button on my phone and leant against the wall, eventually sliding down while bawling and clutching my chest. I was the biggest fool in the entire sentient universe for not taking my chance when I still had it.

Ever since then, I had thought that I wasn’t good enough. I tried dating so many other girls, but whenever I heard another girl laughing, I heard Pita’s hearty ‘ehehehe’ resound vibrantly in my head. Whenever one would massage my shoulders lightly, I imagined Pita’s soft, warm hands squeezing the ache away. And… whenever one laid under me in a heated tryst of passion, I thought of Pita under me, with her hair splayed around her head like a dark, wavy halo, her hands roaming my back as she showered my face with kisses.

Despite all my efforts, I wasn’t able to destroy my yearning for her, which is probably why I never really had a long-term relationship. I longed for her more than anyone else; it got to the point where I felt as if I was melting in the scorching flames of my need for her. I was set ablaze with pining and despondence just by the memory of her in my mind and, at the same time, frozen by my unworthiness. My love for her had outweighed anything else I’ve ever felt for anyone. But I guess I was happier that way. I was happier to know that she was happy.

Wanting to distract myself before the feelings’ scars reopened, I looked ahead and found an old rock to our left. But it was no ordinary rock. It was a rock that could seat the two of us comfortably well; it also held quite fond memories.

“Here, Pita. Let’s sit here,” I said, pointing to the rock. Even though the rock was quite slippery, we were able to seat ourselves. Our rock overlooked the glen and the seashore, and we both stared ahead with nothing to say.

“Remember this rock?” I asked, breaking the silence. “When we were kids, we used to steal cookies from the cookie jar your mother had in your kitchen cupboard and we’d take them out to eat here.”

“And we never got caught. Not even once,” she smirked.

“I’ve forgotten,” I admitted, trying to remember while staring blankly into the horizon. “why your nickname is Pita. I know your real name; it’s Athena. But how did ‘Athena’ transform into ‘Pita’?”

“I think it was when we had a picnic down there by the beach when I was six and you were nine,” she answered as she stole a glance in my direction. “Basil Clarke Finkelstein, the redheaded lad who constantly bullied and extorted our sweetshop money, was riding his bike and spotted us. He went up to us because…”

“Because,” I asked her, my tone excited by the memory of the Basil.

She turned to face me and stifled a giggle after getting a good look of my face.

“ ‘Cause…,” she trailed off. “ ‘He saw us rollin; he hatin’. Patrollin’ and tryna catch us ridin’ dirty. Tryna catch us ridin’ dirty, tryna catch us ridin’ dirty, tryna catch us ridin’ dirty­—’”

At that point, I couldn’t have contained my laughter any longer. I burst in a fit of cackles that soon infected her.

“You’re still fond of making your life into a musical!” I said, trying to catch my breath.

“So you know that song?” she asked me, wiping tears away from her eyes.

“Yeah, Joss was fond of that song or something,” I answered, my laughter slowly dying down.

“Anyway, Basil Clarke Finkelstein, the redheaded lad who constantly bullied us and extorted our sweetshop money, was riding his bike and spotted us. He went up to us because, as you can recall, we were always his easy targets. He told us to hand over what little money we were going to use for sweets and I told him that he can even take the food we had on the picnic blanket if he could eat what I was going to give him.”

All the gears clicked inside my head until the memory resurfaced.

“Oh yeah, I remember!” I exclaimed. “I accidentally packed hot sauce instead of ketchup that day and you filled the pita pocket with mayonnaise, sand, and half a bottle of hot sauce. You handed it to him and he immediately took a bite from it. The look on his face! The look on his face was priceless! He spat it out and flung it towards the sea, then flipped us the finger and ran away. His eyes were watering because of the gross taste and his lips puckered up because he was actually allergic to chili!” I felt a grin curve on my lips. I had forgotten how brave and clever she was.

“You kept on calling me ‘The Heroic Pita Girl’ for the entire day simply because you didn’t know that the kind of bread we had that day was called ‘Pita’. It eventually telescoped to just ‘Pita’, and ever since that day, it was the nickname that I used. Even at Uni, they’d constantly ask how my real name transformed into my nickname. I’d tell them the same story, but I always excluded your name, of course,” she said, her sentence ending as if she had something else to say.

“…”

“…”

“It’s been eight years, huh?”

“So it has, lad. Eight years since you’ve graduated from RADA. Eight years since we last met,” she said while averting my gaze.

“Well, what do you do now, Pita?” I asked, the corner of my mouth turning up to form a smirk.

“I’m a writer now… screenplays and stuff like that. The BBC hired me recently and in a few weeks’ time, I’ll be off to London.”

“For the BBC, you say?”

“Yeah. For Doctor Who, to be precise.”

“Doctor Who?”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I remembered the time you ran to my house and climbed through my bedroom window just to watch the show because your mum was busy watching, in your own words, ‘a lousy romance show about a fat man who likes ice cream and a tall woman who always wore pink. Yuck.’ And now you’re going to write for the show you risked breaking your leg for! That’s absolutely fantastic!  _Molto bene_!”

“Ehehehe. I see what you did there: Nine and Ten references.”

“So are you writing something as of now?”

“No, but once I get there, Steven Moffat will be my boss, meaning I might do some things for Sherlock as well.”

“…Do you know who the thirteenth regeneration’s actor is going to be?”

“No…” she said, turning to face me. “…won’t you tell me?”

I whispered the name into her ear, and her reaction was simply priceless.

“Oh my lord! For real?!” she squealed. She seemed more excited than I was, and I looked around to see in anyone was earshot.

“Yes,” I replied in a low whisper. “But you have to keep it a secret.”

“My lips are sealed, old bean. Besides, I haven’t even found a place to stay in yet.”

“…You could stay at my place.”

“N-no way, lad!” she stammered as her cheeks filled with that gorgeous blush that escaped her whenever she was embarrassed. “I wouldn’t dare impose! Besides, you…you… you already have a… lass of your own.”

My eyebrows rose at her assumption. Why should she think that way?

Silence strangled us as she looked down at her lap. Her eyebrows were burrowed in deep thought yet try as I might, I couldn’t decipher the emotions she felt. Over time, she had become an absolute professional and concealing her feelings. If only there was some way of knowing…

“No, I don’t,” I whispered. I felt my jaw tighten as her head whipped up to look at me. I turned to face her , tight-lipped and expectant of something I couldn’t fathom.

“…eh?” she asked. Her confused face was still just as adorable as the last time I saw it.

“No I don’t, Pita. I don’t have a girlfriend as of now.”

“…”

She turned her head away and deliberately avoided my gaze, obviously thinking again. Her mind had always been a mystery to me; it had always been so wonderfully fast and eccentric, filled with so much intelligence I could only dream of acquiring. I was so desperate to know her thoughts.

Her defences eventually started to crumble apart, the gloom on her face becoming more and more obvious as she delved deeper into her mind palace. I had to distract her from herself; it broke me more than ever to see her like that.

“Do you still remember the beach?” I asked her, hoping to divert her contemplation. 

“Do I ever.” She said. I thanked my lucky stars; my plan had worked. “You were eight then, and I was five. You tried to run away from the seashore and tripped, scraping your knees and breaking your leg. I was the one who carried you all the long way from the shore, which was fine because although you were older than me, you were so gangly and thin back then that I even carried you in an awkward and somewhat gender-bent bridal style.

“I ended up bringing you to my house because your parents and sisters were out in town buying some stuff for supper along with my parents and you didn’t know where your dad left the keys. I made you sit down on the kitchen countertop and treated your wounds, then decided to wait for your mum and dad to come home while watching Doctor Who. You then started to complain, telling me that you were famished. I can’t remember what I cooked for you, but I distinctly remember how I ‘excavated’ the cupboards and the fridge just to see what I can put together in a dish,” a faint smile appeared on her lips, and I felt a smile start on mine too.

“I remember,” Tom said, his voice sounding lost in the memory of that night. “You gave me some spaghetti and some pudding, then you carried me back to my house once you heard a car rolling up our driveway. You told my parents everything that happened. I distinctly remember you accidentally calling my dad ‘papa’. I stayed behind in Scotland with your family while you had to take care of me the following week, checking on me every single time you got home from school.”

“That’s right, lad,” she nodded. “That’s what happened.”

Why did I run away again?”

“Because you insisted that there were sharks swimming near the beach no matter how many times I told you that there are  _no_ sharks in  _Greenock_. And even if there  _were_  sharks in Greenock, it wasn’t shark season at that time.”

“That was typical of me to do that.”

“You were such a coward back then, Tom.”

“I still am, Pita.”

“Whatever do you mean, lad? Right now, you’re the bravest, manliest man I know in my life! I’m quite sure you’ve outgrown your pusillanimity by now,” she said.

“That’s a pretty big word, Pita. Then again, you’ve always been a fan of the drama of big words. The last time I heard that word was also from you, remember? It was the summer of my graduation from Cambridge, wasn’t it? We had some sort of debate at the train station.”

“So it was, wasn’t it? Moving that aside, you’ve definitely grown, lad. You’re not the skinny boy who ran away from the sharks that never were any longer. You’ve changed.” 

“No Pita, I’m still that lily-livered, beanstalk of a boy.”

“You may be a beanstalk, but you’re one hell of a sexy beanstalk,” she mumbled. She might’ve thought I’d never hear and went for it. But I did.

“What?” I asked her, pretending not to have heard it right the first time.

“Nothing,” she answered, pursing her lips as she tried to stop herself from giggling.

“…I’m still a coward,” I sighed. I was so ashamed.

“How so?” she asked.

“All these years, I’ve tried to run away from it, thinking that the one thing that fiercely stirred my emotions deserved something way better than what I can ever offer, thinking that I could move on by trying others. But now, at this very moment, I have to face all these feeling I have and strike while the iron is hot.”

“Face what? Your father’s haggis?”

“Ehehehe! No, Pita. Actually, his haggis has gotten a lot better than the last time you had it.”

“For real?”

“Yes, for real. What I need to face is…”

“Is…?”

“…what I feel for you, Pita,” I said nervously.

Her gaze turned to me, and she looked so adorable and hilarious at the same time. Her eyes were wide with confusion, her breath shakily leaving her body. I anticipated her reaction quietly. At that moment, I was so anxious. Was she going to leave me? Reject me? Accept me? I was both scared to death for her answer and enraptured by the simple yet charming beauty of her observant expression. She studied my face carefully, as if searching for an answer or a reason.

“…What?” she whispered, her voice quivering with doubt. The blush in her cheeks flooded back, and I felt her heat radiating from her body. She looked so divine, and her loveliness fuelled me with an inexplicable sense of bravery, akin to William Wallace or Robert the Bruce.

“Athena, I really will never know how to tell you this without being distracted by the way my heart is pounding or by the way your confused face is both adorable and hilarious, but the thing is: I love you. I’ve always thought that you’d never care for someone like me —what, with my plain personality and my embarrassing awkwardness? That’s why I tried to forget you by dating others, thinking that they can fill in the void of not having you there. But as the crowd of people surrounding me grew and grew, the more misunderstood and lonely I felt. Only you can understand me, darling; you’re the only one who sees me as who I am and not Loki or Henry V or anyone else I’ve been. You don’t see the mirage— the grandeur of the name I’ve made for myself. You see me the way I am. And that’s why I love you, Pita.

“I’ll understand if you don’t feel the same way. I just wanted you to know that my feelings for you exist, and that you are the most special, most important person in the world to me. Pita, I—“

Pita interrupted my internal monologue with a tight hug around my waist. She buried her face into my puffer jacket, overwhelming me with a plethora of feelings. My mouth opened as I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I was holding, and relief washed over me. The feeling of her warmth reassured me, making me hear the singing of seraphim and a triumph more victorious than the victory at the Battle of Bannockburn.  I felt her shoulders move as she cried a bit, and I ran my hand through her hair. I closed my eyes and thanked God for giving me her silent yes.

I pulled away from her, caressing her cheek. I leant in and closed the gap between us with a kiss. My lips moved in a heated frenzy against hers, and she returned my kiss with equal if not magnified ardour as I pulled her closer. The cold melted away from my almost numb fingers as I held her hand, and I felt her fingers intertwine with mine. I felt her pulse drum out a wild beat, her veins alight with the shrill singing of the blood coursing through her.

We pulled away from her, and I saw white puffs form in the frozen air as we exhaled. Soon after, Pita and I were discussing all sorts of things that happened in Greenock in the span of the eight years while I was away. I couldn’t help but laugh as I found out that Basil had married Hortencia Bernard, the meanest girl in her neighbourhood. I was delighted when she told me that Tobit, the boy I’d always associated with the smell of rice cake and shredded coconut, had finally made his dreams come true and moved to cosy flat somewhere in the East Side. She coloured me with sobriety when I found out that Jenny, the pleasant girl who lived across my house, had a baby who died soon after due to anencephaly, the baby never seeing her own father because he was away at sea. 

In exchange for her stories, I told her about Chris Hemsworth. She swatted my arm lightly and told me that I shouldn’t have kissed her if I was already dating Chris, mussing up my hair as she did so. I told her about how much my UNICEF Guinea trip had changed my outlook so much, and she eventually laughed at my crazy fan encounters.

“It’s a miracle you haven’t received any underwear yet!” she giggled.

“Are you kidding me?!” I groaned. “A fan once hid a lacy, flimsy piece of lingerie in a  _matryoshka_  doll!

“What? She gave you that while you were in Russia?”

“No. It was somewhere in the Tube. She came up to me and handed me a box. I opened it in my flat and saw the  _matryoshka_  doll. Inside the smallest doll was a scrap of lace intended to be underwear, along with her number. As much as I love fan gifts, the lingerie was too much. I set the nesting dolls aside and proceeded to my bathroom to burn the underwear.”

She picked on me for my flirtatious behaviour with reporters and fans, and at that moment, she revealed a tiny sliver of her soul. So she  _had_ cared about me! To comfort her, I had told her the sad truth of my last eight years without her; whenever I found myself alone: that I had imagined her with me every breathing second. She blushed and pursed her lips, her breathing hitched as she looked at me.

Time ran faster than any Olympic track champion, which was why we never really noticed the sky’s gradual dyeing from dull grey-blue to a smorgasbord of lilac, indigo, and blood orange. Seagulls soared over our heads as the chill clung deeper and deeper with every blast of wind. Behind us, the stars started to come out, and the lights in a nearby village started to come on and twinkle like earthly stars.

I found myself laughing so much at Pita’s extremely corny joke (Q: What did the Norse God of Thunder use to check Jane’s temperature? A: A Thormometer *facepalm*) when I realised that darkness had crept up on the horizon.

“We best go back there, unless you want everyone else assume that we were out doing something else,” I told her, the aftershock of my laughter still rippling through me.

“I’ll let them think what I’ll have them think,” she told me as she got up and dusted some soil off the seat of her trousers. She extended her hand toward me, her face glowing with that ever-brilliant smile of hers. She looked so beautiful that moment; I almost didn’t notice that she offered her hand to help me up. I grabbed her hand and hoisted myself up before she linked her arm with mine and walked towards the hall with me. Her head leant against my arm and I quietly sighed at the contact. It felt so good to have her by my side, my dreams finally coming true and my prayers finally realised and heard.

We entered the hall, and we were stunned by the heat that greeted us. The room felt like a large furnace compared to the cool outdoors. The air that wafted inside the room felt stuffy and humid but the party was still in full swing. The group our fathers were in were still at it with their pints of beer, but something lacked from the scene.

Pita’s father and mine suddenly appeared in front of us, looking drunk as fuck.

“I told ye, Robbie, they’ll end up in each other’s arms sooner or later. Our bairns have grown up so fast! I remember when we used to complain about changing their wee nappies!” my dad laughed before giving a pointed stare at our hands, which were still clasped together. Pita and I stepped away from each other, our bond breaking apart as well. We shoved our hands into our respective pockets and looked away from each other, and I felt so embarrassed by the situation that our fathers had presented.

“Oh aye, James. Speaking of growin’ up, my little lassie’s moving out! I’m a free man again!” her dad said a little bit too loudly. Pita’s gave herself a facepalm before her large, almost man-like hands completely covered her face. She felt just as humiliated as I was, and I stopped feeling so alone.

“Where to?” my dad asked.

“London. Says she has a job down there for the BBC or something,” her dad answered with a tinge of pride in his voice.

“Dad,” Pita interjected, “I think it’s time for you to go home. You’re havering and as drunk as a sponge in beer.”

“Well, where will you be staying when you get there, lass?” my father asked, turning to face her.

 “Ehm, to be perfectly honest with you, Mr Hiddleston… I haven’t really found a place to stay in yet,” she answered bashfully.

“You can crash in at Tom’s then!” Dad said before striding over towards me to give me a few hard slaps on the back. I coughed a bit from the force; he was most definitely drunk.

My eyes widened up and my eyebrows perked up as the thought crossed my mind. Pita… living in my flat?  _My_ flat? Not a spacious, pristine flat in the heart of London?  _My_  flat? The thought brewed so much frothy daydreams in my head. All the fantasies of Pita that I had locked up before had escaped and were at large, tainting my thoughts with a sordidly romantic hue. From the corner of my eye, I saw her gaze at me, her eyes also wide from the suggestion my father offered.

“Dad,” I protested, “it isn’t that easy. Pita has—”

“Och, stop acting like you donnae want this, lad!” our dads said in unison, both interrupting me.

Pita and I stole fleeting glances at each other, and I was able to hear her mutter a prayer under her breath. She really wanted to stay with me. And, well, I had longed to stay with her for as long as I could remember. The slumbering truth in my mind had awakened to sound of fanfare, pompously shrugging off its drowsy grogginess; I had always wanted to be with her. The moment our families were introduced, I had rushed to her and to tell her the ribbon in her hair was lovely. Whenever my sisters incessantly teased me for my broom-like hair, I would run to her house or call her on the telephone and seek the solace of her kind words and jealousy for my curls. When my parents were going through the divorce settlements, I had snuck off to take the Flying Scotsman’s last trip for that day, ending up on her doorstep in the midnight hour, where she took me in and comforted me. She had always been there for me. She had always loved me. I wanted to make it up to her and return her love.

“I guess it would be nice to have someone around; it gets quite lonely in the flat. It’s been almost twenty four years since I’ve had had your cooking, with the eight-year old me first tasting your cooking the night I ran from the sharks that never were. Please, please won’t you stay with me?” I asked her as I willed my eyes to expose the pleading that my inner voice practically mewled.

She walked up to me and enveloped my waist in her arms once more, our fathers catapulting off their drunken stupor. Their eyes twinkled with delight as they stared on, grins breaking on their faces.

“Yes, Tom. If you want me to, I will,” she whispered into my chest. I stepped back to take a good look at her, sipping in the radiance of the only woman I had ever truly loved.

  **SIX MONTHS LATER**

“Thomas! Hurry up! It’s about to start!” Pita yelled as she hurried to the sofa, careful to not spill her drink and popcorn all over the place.

“Stop calling me Thomas, Pita!” I said, exasperated. “We’ve established this! It makes me feel so… so old!” I strode over to the sofa and sat down by her side. 

“I’m having none of that, lad!” she said, putting for snacks down on the coffee table before turning to dazzle me with her smile.

Chris, Luke, my cousins, my sisters (yes, even Sarah), and my parents were there in the living room of my flat, and they were seated in various places around the room. Pita’s dad wasn’t there; he couldn’t make it because he had to take care of Pita’s Grandma Joanie. However, he  _did_ promise to watch it from Scotland.

“You!” I roared as I lunged in to tickle her profusely. She started shrieking in laughter, which was probably why we almost didn’t hear the famous intro that started on the telly.

“Tom! Stop!” she entreated in a fit of giggles. “It’s really starting now!”

We both calmed down and started watching what was on the telly. As the TARDIS raced through the time vortex, Peter Capaldi’s and his regenerations’ actress’ names were shown. Just after their names was the title of the episode and its writer. Everyone in the room clapped as Pita’s name flashed on the screen—well, everyone except Pita. She covered her face with her hands in embarrassment, and I gently grabbed her wrists to pull her hands away. I stared at her for a while before leaning in to kiss her cheek.

I felt a pillow hit my head, and I looked behind to find Luke, his face in a stern expression and his arms folded across his chest.

“What?!” I asked him.

“There are children, Tom! Think of your nephews!”

I watched Pita as she stared at the telly’s screen, her eyes twinkling. The screen’s soft glow illuminated her face, and the mere sight of her pulled at my heartstrings. I was so lucky to have her.

She sat up as the ending neared, only to grab my arm and hug it tightly. I heard her barely concealed squeal as the last scene played. Peter’s body contorted in pain, his back arching rearward as the regeneration energy surged through him, escaping in intense, golden flashes of light. The Doctor looked up, but it wasn’t Peter’s face anymore.

It was mine.

________________________________________

“That was amazing, Pita,” I told her as I came up to her, handing her a cup of pudding and a spoon.

“Thank you lad. You were  _fantastic_ ,” she replied, turning to face me.

Pita stared at me for a while, and felt all my nervousness pool to the pit of my stomach. I was desperate to tell her what I wanted to. Minutes passed, and the silence was still unpierced and regnant.  

“Hey, thank you,” I said, my voice just barely above a whisper.

“Whatever for, Tom? I’ve done nothing at all,” she answered.  _Oh, if she only knew…_

“No, you’ve done much more than what you take credit for, darling. You’ve restored my faith in love. Thank you so much for staying by my side and loving me with your whole heart. I promise to do just the same, darling, I really do.”

Her cheeks slowly filled with that glorious pink tint, and a smile curved on my face. She pursed her lips and turned her face away, leaving me breathless as she fidgeted.

I leant in to kiss her, grabbing her chin and pulling her closer to my body. The warmth that seeped from her lips triggered the anxiety to uncoil and vanish from my solar plexus. I heard the living room erupt in a roar of cheers and claps. The kiss dragged on, our lips moving in a heated dance. I pulled away, and her eyes opened.

They were twinkling with wonder, as if she was studying me. And so I stared back.

She was the same lass I saw a few months back in that stuffy hall in Scotland. But so many things had changed since then. Since then, our hearts, intertwined and elated, had soared in love. She had told me the shining truth that she kept hidden in her mind, moving me to reveal as much as I could. I had opened up to her more than anyone else. She was the missing piece of my soul.

And then it hit me like a freight train.

We were always headed in this direction, as if our parents had secretly planned our meeting since she was in her mum’s womb. Fate and life had their hands wrist-deep into the situation, yes, but there was this mysterious, innate force within us that constantly pulled us together. We were truly meant for each other.

I embraced her from behind as she stared into the twinkling London lights. She was radiant with beauty, but I was distracted by my uneasiness. ‘Should I go for it now?’ I asked myself, debating whether to wait or not. I eyed the scene before us, assessing how apt it was for the moment that I planned to unfold.

My lips brushed her neck, and she giggled.

At that moment, the ring in my pocket started to grow heavier…


End file.
